First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 6

  I waited until the white Mercedes had turned the corner at the end of the street, then I started the Cherokee and followed. Streetlights did their job well enough that I left my headlights off. With no other cars on the quiet streets of Pleasant’s country club section, I stayed well back. The Mercedes’ taillights turned right onto the long and winding Country Club Drive. I put my lights on and allowed even more distance between us. She turned left about a quarter mile ahead, so I knew she was not leaving the club section. I sped up, hit the lights, and made the left, just catching a glimpse of her tail lights making a right.

  Now I was pretty sure where she was going, so I slowed down. A couple turns later I saw the white Mercedes pull into Bo Rollins’ garage. I parked a block away and got out.

  ***

  Technically, breaking and entering is a crime. But if not reported, then it’s just another tree falling in the forest. I didn’t plan on being reported.

  Because I knew some things.

  Given his history, Bo Rollins had shown remarkable restraint when I crashed the swinger’s party. The towering left-hander, who had one of the meanest, out-of-control fastballs in the majors, beaned more than a few batters during his mediocre Mets career. A batter he hit would come at him, and Rollins would wave him in, invite the fight at the mound.

  I was at Shea Stadium in 2004 when Rollins, in his last season, hit Billy Rabb in the shoulder in the top of the first inning, with a fastball that started high and tight and rode in. The same pitch in the fourth hit Rabb in the head. Cleared both benches. Tossed from the game, Rollins walked off smiling. During his playing days, he was arrested twice for disorderly conduct in New York bars. Last year in Pleasant, he punched a guy at the Horny Toad after the guy accused Rollins of hitting on his wife.

  And there was Rollins’ financial situation. After learning that Joanne Mack had filed for divorce, I dug into some other public records. Nothing surprising about the Macks. But plenty on the temperamental lefty.

  Rollins bought his home in the country club for $695,000 in late 2004, just as he left baseball. In 2006, the value had soared to $1.1 million. I enlisted my friend Jack Beachum to search some records I didn’t have access to. Beach found that like many people at the time, Rollins took out a second mortgage on the place, then instead of investing it, he’d bought a Hummer, a Harley and a BMW, all in 2006.

  In 2008, the housing market plummeted. The market clawed back much of those losses since, but best I could tell, Rollins was still upside-down. He owed more on his home than it was worth. Plus he’d long ago traded in the Hummer and the BMW for newer models, then done so again. His monthly loan payments just on vehicles was about the same as my house payment. His two mortgage payments added up to an unspeakable number.

  None of that meant Bo Rollins had anything to do with Joe Mack’s disappearance. But it did put him on my short list of suspects. And now one of the other suspects on my list had just parked her car in his garage.

  The front door was locked. I went through the side gate and into the backyard.

  The backyard was a resort in miniature. Bougainvillea lined the fence. Fountains bubbled. A small waterfall tumbled into the pool. Landscape lighting shined in all the right places.

  The slider to the dining room was unlocked, so I went in. It was quiet. Lights were on in the dining room and living room. A pair of woman’s heels sat next to the couch, along with a blouse and bra. These people.

  I walked through the rooms and down a wide hallway, past three bedroom doors that were closed. Rollins and his wife had two kids, both grown and gone. At the end of the hallway was a double door. I didn’t knock.

  Sheets flew. Bo Rollins rolled off Joanne Mack. His big white ass bounced off the bed as he sprang to his feet.

  Six-six is big.

  A wise detective might’ve had second thoughts about interrupting coitus involving a very large athlete known to have a bad temper, but it was too late for second thoughts.

  “God damn you, Quinn,” he said. “This shit has to stop.”

  Joanne Mack pulled a sheet up to her neck, but not before I saw all of what she’d given me a peek at earlier in the day.

  “Mrs. Mack,” I said, “you have an interesting way of grieving.”

  “Fuck you, Quinn,” she said. The endearment was becoming familiar.

  Rollins didn’t come at me. I was glad for that. But I wasn’t sure why. And I wasn’t sure what to do next. So I watched and waited. You can learn a lot by keeping your mouth shut. What I learned was this:

  Rollins was flustered. He didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was in over his head, probably in more ways than one. Joanne Mack’s green eyes were calculating next steps, flicking between me and Rollins. She would take charge. I waited to see which Joanne Mack would do that.

  “Bo, sit down,” she said it softly, her voice sticky sweet. Rollins stopped glaring at me long enough to pull his tighty whities on. He sat on the edge of the bed, stared at the wall.

  “Quinn, you can think whatever you want. Bo and I live the lifestyle. So does Joe. That’s between us.”

  “Certainly was,” I said. “Until now.”

  “With Joe missing, I needed someone to talk to. Bo and I are friends. And, you know,” she tilted her head toward him, “one thing led to another.”

  “It certainly did.”

  “Again, between us,” she said. “Listen, I don’t know where Joe is, but I miss him, and I’m confused and upset. He’d understand.”

  “I certainly hope so,” I said.

  Bo still didn’t know what to do. He looked at the floor, then the ceiling. He rubbed his hands together, squeezed one thumb, then the other. He was a dog on a leash, tail between his legs, but had also spotted a cat he wanted to destroy. It was the first time I’d ever thought of myself as a cat. I decided the whole metaphor was silly. Whatever, Bo’s behavior was inconsistent with what I knew about him.

  “What you think doesn’t matter,” Joanne Mack said, her voice shifting to flat, harsh. “And I’m going to tell you right now. We all have reputations in this town, and reputations matter.”

  “They certainly do,” I said.

  “To me and to you,” she said.

  “I agree,” I said. “My reputation matters to me.”

  “Then this will be the last we see of each other,” she said. “Or I will ruin yours.”

  “Should I take that as a threat?”

  Her green eyes narrowed. I was sure, unlike her daughter, she’d fire some lasers or venom. Instead, she did manage an evil grin. “You certainly should.”

  Bo Rollins continued fidgeting, staring at the wall.

  I let Joanne win this round, gave her a good long stare and chewed my lip a little, to make it look like I didn’t know exactly what was going on, which was pretty much the case. Then I nodded and left.

  Let the games begin.

  Chapter 13

  Sleep was blissful, breakfast was big, and my face and body were finally healing from the beating I’d taken in my last case. I had a lot to think about. Sometimes when I had a lot to think about, the best thing to do was not think about any of it. And the best way to escape thought was at Master Choi’s dojo. I left home in the Wrangler and headed into the center of Pleasant, past my office, around the central traffic circle where Ringo, the infamous saguaro, stood sentry, then on south down Pleasant Way to the edge of the gridded downtown. I turned right into a more industrial part of Pleasant and pulled up at Choi’s Martial Arts.

  When Master Choi saw me walk in, he just shook his head. I knew what he was thinking. He’d been telling me not to get into fights, that taekwondo was about staying out of trouble, not getting into it. I worried he might lecture me again. Worse, I feared he might want to spar. Last time we did that I ended up with sore ribs and wounded pride.

  It was late morning and the dojo was empty. Master Choi sat on his stool in the corner. At five-five, his feet didn’t touch the mat. I bowed, he nodded.

  Master Choi s
at still and silent as I worked through warmups and stretches, some hard kicks and punches on the bag until I was drenched in sweat, then all my forms from fourth-degree black belt down to white belt, the first one I’d learned as a teenager. For forty-five minutes, my mind focused on my body. And Master Choi barely moved.

  I bowed. He nodded. I turned and went to the back of the dojo, to the small room with free weights, and spent thirty minutes doing supersets. By the time I was done I had no energy left, and my body felt better than it had in a week, and my mind was clear. I came back out to find Master Choi still sitting on the stool in the corner.

  “You want to fight, must learn how.”

  “You’ve taught me well.”

  “Not show you everything yet,” he said. “You not come often. Getting soft. Must come every day.”

  “I will try,” I said. “And you’ll teach me more?”

  “You come. I teach.”

  “Thank you Master Choi.” I turned and headed off the mat.

  “Quinn.”

  I stopped at the edge of the mat and turned around. “Yes, Master Choi.”

  “You did a good thing. That man with the drone. Bad man.” He was referring to my last case, which had ended with some of the worst taekwondo moves I’d ever used, but they did the trick, and the other guy was still in the hospital. Master Choi slid off the stool, closed his eyes and bowed. I bowed deeply in return.

  “Thank you Master Choi.”

  Chapter 14

  The silver Camaro, a boxy model from the eighties, was easy to spot, following a couple blocks behind me on Pleasant Way. I’d picked it up soon as I left the office. I turned left onto Pima Road, and so did the Camaro, following a quarter mile back. There were a couple cars between us, but not much traffic. It was easy to tail someone on this six-lane boulevard in the middle of the afternoon, and just as easy to know you were being tailed.

  Storm clouds ringed the Valley of the Sun, pregnant with rain that kept not coming, day after day. There was heat. There was moisture. Just not quite enough of one or the other to let it all go. Solo had stayed at the office. I wasn’t expecting trouble on this outing, and he preferred the air conditioning to the topless Jeep on sultry days like this. I preferred the topless Jeep, always. I considered looping back to get him, now that I was being tailed, but it was the middle of the day and I’d be around plenty of people, so there seemed little to worry about.

  I turned right onto Thompson Peak Parkway, and a moment later the Camaro did the same and re-appeared. In another mile I made a left onto Hayden, and the Camaro stayed with me. I didn’t try to lose it. A few minutes later we turned right onto Princess Boulevard, a winding two-lane street posted at fifteen miles an hour. The Camaro backed off but stayed in my mirror.

  A moment later I turned the Jeep into the circular entry of the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess, parked off to the side and got out. The Camaro pulled over on the opposite side of the street. I looked at the car, moving my eyes without turning my head, so the driver wouldn’t know I knew he was following me. The tinted windows made it impossible to see inside.

  There were two guys at the valet, one tall, one short, both in dark brown shorts and light brown shirts. Sweat stained their armpits. I asked the tall one if he was working two days ago.

  “Not me,” he said. “Jeff was.” He pointed with his thumb at the shorter guy, then left to greet some vacationers pulling up. I watched the Camaro out of the corner of my eye. It sat. Nobody got out.

  “You here around noon?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said. “Why?”

  I showed him the photo of Joe Mack on the brochure. “See this guy?”

  “Lotta people here that day,” Jeff said. “Big convention, you know.”

  “I know. But I’m only looking for this guy.”

  The Camaro pulled away. Whoever it was must’ve figured out whatever it is they wanted to know—maybe that I was, without question, a brilliant detective hot on the trail.

  “You a cop?”

  “Private investigator.”

  Jeff looked around. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”

  “Eli Quinn.” I stuck my hand out and Jeff shook it. He took the twenty and slipped it into his pocket like a pro. “This guy’s missing. His daughter’s worried. I’m trying to find him.”

  “Police already asked about him,” Jeff said.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said I didn’t remember him. Like I said, lotta people here.”

  “You see anything unusual happen, maybe around noon?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary. Maybe someone who didn’t fit in. Maybe two guys leaving together, one with a gun to his head?”

  Jeff looked up at the clouds for answers. I waited.

  “Lotta guys came and went. Some together. I remember there was a van, just before noon or maybe just after, parked right over there.” He pointed through some fountains at the center of the circular drive to a trio of black Escalades parked on the other side.

  “Mini-van?”

  “No. Like the kind electricians drive.”

  “What was unusual about it?”

  “Just sat there a few minutes. Guy didn’t get out. I didn’t think much of it, but since you asked.”

  “You see him?”

  “Wasn’t really paying attention, but I remember he had long hair and a baseball cap.”

  “How long?”

  “Past his shoulders.”

  “Tied back?”

  “No, just loose.”

  “And you’re sure it was a guy.”

  “Yep.”

  “What color was the cap?”

  “Don’t remember. Maybe dark. Blue, black, not sure.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Maybe a sport coat or a suit or something. I remember he seemed overdressed for a guy driving a van and wearing a baseball cap.”

  “Tall, short?”

  “Big, I think. Not fat, but not a little guy.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Some other guy came out of the hotel, got in the van, and they left. Listen, I gotta…”

  “This guy?” I held the picture out again, another twenty with it. He took the picture, studied it while pocketing the twenty.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see him. I was busy, and I wasn’t really paying attention. I just noticed the van and the driver sitting there. You know, because it was different.”

  “The guy got in the van, was he tall? Short? Skinny? Fat?”

  “Average, I guess. A little stocky.”

  “Remember what he wore?”

  “Not really.”

  “Think hard, Jeff. Shorts and flip-flops? A Cardinals jersey? Trench coat?”

  “Maybe a suit. Not shorts. Like he was at the convention, not on vacation.”

  “And you’re sure it was around noon,” I said.

  “About then. I got back from break at eleven-thirty.”

  “Color of the van?”

  “Brown, maybe,” he said. “Or maroon. Not sure.”

  “Thanks for your help, Jeff.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Next time, though, pay more attention. I would’ve tipped you better.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Just messing with you, kid. Glad you had your eyes open.”

  Chapter 15

  Solo licked my face as I woke up on the floor of my entryway, head throbbing. I reached up, felt the lump at the base of my skull. The front door was wide open, heat and humidity pouring over me. Cheek on the cool tile, my fuzzy mind pieced together what had happened.

  Solo and I had come home from the office. I was heading right back out to dinner with Sam, so I’d parked the Jeep out front.

  Opened the front door, stepped in, Solo barked…

  I pushed myself up to my knees, then sat on the floor. My right forearm hurt. I rubbed it. Bruised badly.

  Something coming at me. Right a
rm up reflexively. Darkness.

  Solo panted. He looked out the front door, back at me.

  “Speak,” I said.

  Nothing.

  “What happened, pal?” I pointed out the door.

  He barked. Needles in the back of my head. Glad his habit was the single bark.

  I cupped the lump on my head. “Someone attacked me.”

  Another bark.

  “And you attacked him.” I pointed out the door again.

  Another bark.

  “He must’ve run off, or I’d be dead.”

  That was obvious. Solo didn’t say anything.

  “And then you came back to protect me.”

  He let his tongue loll to the side, equal to a nod. He got a much-deserved head-pat and some serious scratching behind the ears. “Good boy.” He licked my face.

  Standing up happened in stages. My head cleared as much as could be expected. I pulled my phone from its holster, looked at the time. No more than a few minutes had passed since we’d gotten home.

  I called Sam and changed our dinner plans.

  ***

  Sam let herself in my front door wearing a short black dress with spaghetti straps, black heels, a thin silver necklace. Best I could tell that was it. I’d never seen her look more beautiful. Then again, I’d never seen her look less beautiful.

  “Hell, Quinn. Our first real dinner date and you cancel last minute. Girl all dressed up.” She said it with an upward inflection, hand on hip, and a shake of her dark hair that drove everything else out of my mind for an instant.

  “Maybe we can fix that,” I said.

  She sat on the edge of the club chair, wrapped her arms around my head and gently pulled me into her. She ran her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes. “I should get hurt more often.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She pulled back, looked at me. “You OK?”